


Forbidden Fruits

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 15:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: Inspector Lestrade is seeking the help of Sherlock Holmes, as the honourable evangelical preacher Reverend Durham is killed in a most gruesome way and the police is at a loss. With seemingly no enemies and a teetotal lifestyle, there seems to be neither motive nor suspect. One-shot!





	Forbidden Fruits

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Though I have chosen to not apply any warnings, I have to point out that this story is a crime story and does contain some detail that though not too graphic, might be unsuitable for younger or very sensitive readers. It also addresses Holmes using drugs since this is based on the original characters created by ACD.  
> Another topic that is addressed in this story and which might be offensive to some is homosexuality, though NOT in regards to the main characters. - Personally, I see neither Holmes or Watson as being gay as you will clearly see from some of my other stories, and consequently, there will NEVER be any slash-stories from me featuring Holmes and Watson nor stories that imply that they had any other kind of relationship with one another than a platonic friendship.

Forbidden fruits

 

The story I am about to tell, is one of the most tragic ones, that Holmes and myself ever came across. It, in fact, was of such, that I hardly dare pick up my pen and write about it. But even after all this time it has not faded from my mind, as it made me question some of the most deep-set values of our society. The delicacy of the case even after almost a decade has passed forbids it, to give any particulars especially to the date and the names and places will be altered so that it will not arouse another scandal and a far greater one at that, than the one which had happened back then.

It was a lovely and warm morning in early August in our early years at Baker Street. Holmes had gone onto one of his walks around town – usually into the great abyss that is the East End. He knew the area well and he would often dress up as a loafer or sailor and delve into the underbelly of London's society. I, on the other hand, had decided to spend a lazy day at home, finishing some correspondence without the disturbance of a strangled Stradivarius or the putrid smell of sulphuric acid. The last couple of weeks had been devoid of any interesting case and Holmes' mood had become more and more dark till one morning he had pulled out a little bottle of clear liquid and a syringe.

"What is that, Holmes?" I inquired.

"Oh, nothing special," he retorted whilst filling up the syringe, " just a seven per cent solution of cocaine I want to try. My brain has been restless for too long and it will welcome any kind of distraction." With that he had untied his cravat, wound it around his upper arm, pulled it tight, clenching one end between his teeth, and jammed the needle into his veins.

I had been shocked – and yet, knowing just how restless he had been, surprised I was not.

The next day he had woken up terribly hungover and in a worse mood than before. I had tried there and then to convince him to dispose of his new habit before it even started to be one.

"Watson, I honour your concern, but my brain needs to work and feed on something. When there is nothing to feed on, it needs distraction and I found it wonderfully distracting to feel the drug run through my body and lift me up to climactic heights. Give me something to ponder upon and I will ditch the needle any time."

That was now almost a week ago and I was relieved to see, that Holmes had not made use of the seven per cent solution again during the following days despite his statement. Instead, he had obviously decided to deepen his already intimate knowledge of what he would call criminal London and had wandered off into the slums of the our great capital. Which meant that I had some spare time on my hands.

I had just finished my second letter and was about to push my armchair into that lofty bay window of our living room to finish reading my novel when I heard the doorbell ring. A moment later, Mrs. Hudson, our landlady led Inspector Lestrade into our living room.

"Good morning, Doctor, how are you?" he greeted me and without further ado asked: "Where is Holmes?"

"Good morning to you as well, Inspector. As to your question, I do not know, he has left early this morning dressed as a seaman and I have no idea where he went and when he will be back," I answered.

"Then there will be no point in waiting," the inspector sighed. "But will you please tell him that I would like his opinion on the Durham incident?"

"Yes, of course, I will."

"Well, if I find the time I might drop by later again."

And as fast as he had entered he left again, leaving me puzzled. I had studied the papers but had not come across an incident connected with Durham. I tried to apply some of Holmes' methods and studied Bradshaw's to find out when there were any trains coming or leaving from the place so far in the north of England. I found that there was one train that had arrived half an hour ago at King's Cross Station. Seeing Lestrade wearing his travelling clothes this was in all likeliness the one he had arrived with. I also checked how long the train took and realised that the tragedy had to have happened at least two days ago. My thought went as follow – The train arrived at 10:40 am at King's Cross and had left Durham at 7:27 pm the night before. So any train would take at least twelve hours to reach the city. Lestrade was also bound to have looked into the matter, which must have taken up some more hours. With this calculation, I went over to the stack of old papers and dug through them. But not one single paragraph referred to any occurrence in Durham. I was depleted. I tried to work it from another angle as Holmes would have done but just with the information of the place, a rather large one at that it simply was not enough. After an hour I returned to my book. But my mind was wandering and I read and re-read my pages without actually taking in what I had just read. After some time I gave up and flung the volume onto the side table, knocking down one of Holmes' teacups that usually littered our sitting room. I picked up the shards of broken china and flung them into the wastepaper basket underneath my companions desk. 

It was at this moment that my eyes fell upon a tiny and unassuming paper clipping he had neatly pinned to the wall above his workplace and there I read it:  
"Reverend Durham found dead in a pool of blood  
Police called in to investigate the death of popular evangelical preacher.  
The popular and well known evangelical preacher Reverend Obadiah Durham was found on his grounds near Evendale in Hampshire battered to death. The circumstances of his death are as yet unknown and mysterious as he was a well respected and well-loved man. To solve the mystery Scotland Yard has been called in to investigate."

"Durham..." I muttered.

"Yes, what's with him?" a familiar voice asked.

I wheeled around to find Holmes in the doorway. He was still dressed as a sailor and appeared to be even dirtier than when he had left the house, he smelled of murky water, cheap spirits and sweat. Had he passed me in the street I would not have recognised him.

"Lestrade was here to ask your advice on this case," I answered.

"Was he?" Holmes asked, bored. I nodded while he rang the bell and used the silence to inform our landlady that he would like a cup of tea to be brought up and then disappeared into his room to return to his own suave appearance.

"I see you've had a busy morning," he stated when he sat down to drink his tea.

"Not particularly..." I tried to change the subject not wanting to draw attention to my dismal and fruitless venture in the art of deduction.

"Oh, come on, Watson!" he smiled. "You have written your letters as you told me last night you planned to do. I can see them there on your desk ready to be posted. I can also see your book on the side table and judging by the bookmark you have not made any progress."

"Hm!"

"You also informed me, that Lestrade has been here to ask us for help. So there is the distraction. Underneath your novel, I can see Bradshaw's which normally is tucked away on the top shelf of our buffet. So you checked out for the trains that would bring us to Evendale already...- No, you did not check for trains to Evendale, I can see you blushing. Also, of course, you only came across the paper clipping when I arrived. So no, you were looking up something else."

He pushed aside my book and picked up the timetable which I had left open but turned upside down on the table beside me. He looked at the page blankly at first and after a minute or so started laughing.

"Oh, dear Watson, that was a mistake even I would have made under these circumstances! Durham is such a name that one would rather associate with the city than with a person, is it not?" he still chuckled, but it was not in a gleeful way only genuinely amused and it had me join in eventually.

It was in that situation that Lestrade did return to Baker Street. I swear he must have thought us completely crazy. He at least looked exceedingly irritated.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he greeted us.

"Good afternoon, Lestrade," Holmes returned the compliments, straightening his face. "What can I do for you? Watson told me you have some trouble over the death of the Reverend Durham and that you would like to consult me about it?"

"I do indeed, Holmes," the man answered and took a seat on one of our chairs. He was such a regular visitor, that it was not necessary any more to take too much trouble over polite formalities. Laying his hat onto the table he took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Having been inside all day, I had not realised, just how warm it had gotten during the day.

"The trouble is, that there does not seem to be a motive at all and yet there he was, his head bashed in and bled to death. Some force it must have been. Not much left of his face. If it weren't for his clothes and his stature he would be utterly unrecognisable.

"Here," Holmes handed the man a glass of water.

"Thank you," he gulped down half the glass in one.

"So what data do you have?" Holmes inquired.

"Not much," the Inspector retorted. "He used to take long walks every evening. The grounds are lovely and he used to walk there as well as in the copse behind them. There is an extensive plantation that borders the parkland and pastures. Two evenings ago he did not return for his bath. - He took one every evening before bed and he seemed to be adamant to have it ready and prepared on his returns."

"Was he a punctual man?"

"Very much so. After waiting for twenty minutes the valet rang the alarm assuming that his master had sprained an ankle or the like and a search party was organised. He was found not far from the house and close to a little pool and the tea house – a little Georgian thing. I presumably should describe the situation of the house – it is about half a mile from the village of Evendale and comprises of the house itself as well as an adjoining grange. The estate is surrounded by extensive grounds subdivided into pasture and woodland as well as a park with a canal on three sides of a large croquet lawn and another canal leading off towards the copse, where at the far end a high fountain is visible from the house as well as the tea pavilion and the grange buildings, the former being to the left from the house and the latter to the right. Next to the tea house, there is a small pool overgrown by water lilies. All this apart from the fountain and the middle axle of the canal is sheltered from view from the house as well as the other buildings so that the site of the murder can neither be seen from the grange nor the house."

Holmes, sitting in his armchair his thin fingers pressed together and his eyes closed, nodded.

"It was around half past ten when they took off in the twilight carrying lanterns. They being Mr Withecombe, the late man's brother in law, the groom, the butler, the valet and the granger – each in another direction but within shouting distance of one another. It was Hanson, the granger, who found him. He alarmed the others and the groom was dispatched to the doctor and the police."

Lestrade took another sip of water.

"And that is pretty much all I can tell you. I can make neither head nor tails of it. The man did not seem to have an enemy in the world he still had his watch on him as well as a couple of Sovereigns in his pocket, there was no feud with anybody not even a squabble."

"Could someone have mistaken him for somebody else? The brother in law perhaps?" I suggested.

Lestrade shook his head: "They are of a completely different build."

He glanced in Holmes' direction, who still sat there with his eyes closed looking as if he had fallen asleep.

"So you will look into it?" the inspector asked.

"Of course I will. If you have nothing else to do, Watson, I suggest you pack an overnight bag and we will join you on your journey back to Lower Evendale, Lestrade, since I see you are on your way back to Hampshire anyway."

The inspector looked puzzled but following Holmes' glance, his eyes fell upon his hat. He had placed it face down on the table and between the headband and the felt of his bowler hat, a valid train ticked peeked out.

"Is there anything that escapes you?" he growled.

"Not much," Holmes simply stated.

XXX

Three-quarters of an hour later we were at the station and on our way out of town. I had managed to organise some sandwiches and a flask of tea, courtesy of our landlady, which we now shared while the rows of houses of the great city flew by.

From the time on we had finished our simple meal, it was a quiet journey. Holmes did not open his mouth once unless a question was directed directly towards him and Lestrade was busy catching up on the news in the paper, which left me to enjoy the scenery. It was not too long before the train had reached the outskirts and the landscape became more and more rural and pleasant to the eye. It was one of the slow trains that stopped every now and then at regular intervals and it took us some time to reach our destination. We passed Eton and Windsor alighted at Bracknell to take another and even slower train towards Fareham. At Ellesthorne we got out. A carriage was already waiting for us.

"I left word in the morning that I would return by this time," Lestrade explained, while we stored our bags on the rather rickety looking dog cart.

"Beautiful village!" I exclaimed.

"You think so?" Holmes looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

"You don't?"

"It certainly looks lovely and very serene, but just think, Watson, what potential the solitude of the countryside offers to the one who is up to no good."

"But it is very hard, to stray in any direction without someone noticing in any village," I retorted.

"That is also true, Watson. But that only counts for the villages themselves, as soon as you venture out of them, no-one can tell much, let alone see or hear anything. But then again, I reckon that even for a decent man it has some advantages..." he mused.

It was a two-mile drive through pleasant countryside. Here and there farmsteads showed from behind the hedges that lined the roads and a Norman belfry pointed out another village in some distance. We crossed a merrily flowing river, the bridge as old as time, mossy and ragged, but solidly built, next to it a water mill squeaking under the onslaught of the wheat harvest. People were working in the fields, mowing, binding and stacking the ricks. Children played beside the river and inside the brooks that due to the warmth held only little water. It was a stark contrast to the polluted and dusty city we had just left behind and the mystery that awaited us was almost banished from my mind till we crossed yet another tiny stream and turned into a driveway, passing two massive columns of sandstone.

Evendale House was a Georgian brick building. It looked charming and very elegant and had nothing of the foreboding halls that usually occupy our old families. It was not a large building, but still, it looked stately and noble. The gardens that surrounded it were filled with old trees and behind the house I could make out the glistening waters of the canal which Lestrade had described and which was lined with the most lovely of rhododendron I had ever seen, almost as tall as the surrounding trees. They filled the air with their scent and the colour of their blossoms broke the dull green of the copse behind them.

"Here we are!" Lestrade informed us and with that broke my reverie.

The carriage stopped at the front and we were greeted by a man in mourning attire.

He introduced himself as Samuel Whitecombe.

"I am so relieved, you have found the time to look into this matter, Mr Holmes," he stated as he led us into the entrance hall, where the butler awaited us to take our hats and walking sticks. 

The butler was of the typical kind unassuming and sombre. As was expected of him he melted into the background waiting to be called to wait upon his masters if he was shaken by the demise of his master he did not show it. The entrance hall itself was a bright and high ceilinged room with its original Georgian furniture and daintily sloping staircase of the same style to our left. Just the gas-fitted chandelier bore testimony of a modern household. It certainly did not appear to be the scene of a tragedy.

"Obadiah was my brother in law and also my best friend, I am very shaken of the suddenness of his passing when I was in great need, he offered me a place to stay, what am I going to do without him?" our host rambled on. "Here is the morning room, please make yourself comfortable, I will call for my wife, she's taken to her room, being very shaken. But we'll be at your disposal, Mr Holmes."

With that he hurried off.

He seemed a nervous kind of person and yet there was something genteel about him. Being middle-aged he was not bad looking, not tall and with an almost slender fragility befitting a lady. His hair was sand coloured and so was his goatee; his face fine cut, with high cheekbones and a pleasant brow and a straight and slender nose. All in all, he was a handsome man and I was sure that many a lady found him quite charming and amiable.

I just had time to muse over this, when he returned with his wife, one arm supporting her while holding her hand with the other. Despite their closeness, they seemed a world apart. Mrs Whitecombe was a stout woman but not unpleasant to look at. She was rather swarthy but her dark eyes bore a fire which her husband would never possess. Her mouth spoke of a joyful and humorous personality and yet there seemed an underlying bitterness, which considering her loss was not surprising. Her eyes were red-rimmed, she indeed looked shaken and there was a distinct tenseness about her.

"This is my wife Candida," Whitecombe introduced as he led her to a chair. "Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson - and the inspector you have already met."

"Pleasure," she answered, but her facial expression said otherwise.

Holmes looked at her, his glance as piercing as ever, then he bowed and turned towards the window. It led out onto the croquet lawn. Behind it, the rhododendron was blooming and at the far end, the fountain joyfully gleamed in the light of the late afternoon sun.

"Interesting..." Holmes muttered, before turning towards us.

"I think I would like to examine the scene of the crime first before we run out of light."

XXX

It was but a short walk to the spot, led by the Inspector. A lovely place it was, almost magical, tucked away behind the large bushes and surrounded by them, reachable from the footpath only through a small passage some twenty meters long formed by climbing roses that grew around a trellis. The little pool that the inspector had spoken of was to one side of it, a small brook linking it with the canal a little off to the other side, a clearing in between. It was on this clearing that the spatter and puddle of the blood now brown and dry, was still clearly visible and no-one needed to point out the place where the Reverend had found his end. Knowing Holmes' methods by now Lestrade and I stood back to watch him examine every trace and mark that no other man would ever find. He lay flat on his stomach crawling around on all fours, on a couple of occasions he pulled out his magnifying glass to look at something more closely and finally, after about half an hour, he got up and stretched himself. His brows knitted he continued to the small pavilion. Examining a small but empty alcove next to the door and its also empty counterpart on the other side.

"There is nothing in there, Holmes," the Inspector remarked. "The deed was done out here."

Holmes, however, did not pay attention. He proceeded to open the glass-fronted double doors of the building. Inside was a comfortable looking Ottoman that took up almost all of the space. A tiny table was squeezed in beside it holding a vase with withered flowers and a plain leather bound book that bore no title. Holmes picked it up and flipping through it whistled, before putting it back.

He rummaged through the drawer of the side table which revealed nothing more than an oddly shaped stick about as thick as the thumb of a grown man and some twelve inches long, a pot of Vaseline, half empty and a silk scarf. Holmes looked puzzled.

"What was this used for?" he asked the inspector.

"As I understand, it was used by the Reverend as a retreat to ponder upon his sermons."

Holmes looked at him oddly and the twitching corner of his mouth showed, that he found something quite comical, though what it might be, was quite beyond me.

"His sermons, ey?"

Lestrade looked a bit huffed by my friend's amused comment but did not say anything. He seemed to have as little a clue what this was about than I myself.

Holmes meanwhile had taken out his magnifying glass again and searched the surface of the Ottoman, on occasion he stopped, slightly taken aback, but never commenting on what he had found. At last, he straightened his back and turned towards us.

"You would not coincidently have a fishing net on you, inspector?"

The man addressed looked at my friend as if he had gone completely insane.

"No, I have not, coincidently..."

"Then I suggest you ask the gardener to drag that pool. It holds your murder weapon. And now I think I have seen all there was to see. - Just one more question, Lestrade – was the Reverend the only person to make use of this retreat?"

"As much as I know, he was."

"Well, I better ask the lady about it," Holmes answered. "One can never be too sure."

"You found something of interest then? What was it?" I inquired.

"All that you saw yourself."

And with that Holmes turned towards the house.

"The body is down in the wine cellar," Lestrade informed us. "We'll need some lamps, I'll just go and find the butler to provide us with them."

"Why is he in the wine cellar?" I wondered while we followed the butler down a steep and narrow set of stairs.

"It's a cold place. You would not want a body upstairs in this kind of weather. Now would you? And since the Reverend was a teetotaller it has been out of use and seemed the most practical place to put him."

All three of us agreed.

"Wise idea," Holmes remarked. "When is the funeral?"

"Tomorrow, Sir, at ten."

We had reached the cold cavernous room, the ceiling was low and not quite high enough for my friend to straighten up to his full height, and even I could feel my hair brush against the damp bricks of the vault. In the centre of it lay the dead man, spread out on an old washing table, covered by a sheet, but with the brown stains clearly showing that it had not been a peaceful death.

Slowly and almost tender the butler pulled aside the cover and revealed what once had been his master. His hands were shaking and yet he managed to stay composed and dignified. A prime example of his profession.

"You may excuse me, gentlemen, but I have to take care of dinner being served." he bowed and left us with the grizzly remains.

"I would actually prefer to take a look at the gentleman's clothes first," Holmes remarked.

"They are over there," Lestrade pointed to a bundle on a stool in the far corner.

Holmes went through the pockets without revealing anything new or interesting. The man's cane leaned on the wall and looked as if waiting for its master to pick it up and go for a walk once more. Holmes lifted it slightly and weighed it in his hands before turning towards the corpse.

"There has obviously not been an internal inquest," Holmes stated looking at the untouched body, that bore no sign of an autopsy.

"There was no need to do so. The cause of death is pretty obvious," the Yard-man answered testily.

"Quite so, quite so. - Watson, will you take a look at the injury?"

I bend down to do so. The injury was a horrible one. The man's face was not recognisable any longer as someone must have smashed something into his face with some force. The nose was not just broken, but ground to a pulp, his lips were a bloody mess, where the teeth had dug into the flesh, the lower jaw broken in several places. Most of the teeth actually had broken off and one was still stuck in what I assumed to be the lower lip, though I could not be sure. The forehead was less damaged than the lower part of the face, but the skull had evidently been cracked by the force and was also crusted in blood, the eyes mere hollows as if they had been forced back into their sockets by the force of the blow. The pooling blood had filled into the eyeballs making it appear as if instead of eyes there was nothing than a deep hollow full of congealed blood. Even as a doctor I was taken aback at such a sight and such violence.

"It is quite gruesome, is it not, Watson?" Holmes' voice was devoid of such sentiments.

"Quite so. That must have been some kind of a blow that did this. No-one but a very strong person could have done this."

"I am not so sure. I think I go with Newton on this one..." he mumbled, before examining the wound for himself.

"Who is Newton? There is no-one called Newton around here, as far as I am aware. Where would I find him then?"

"Westminster Abbey," Holmes answered, not looking up.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders in exasperation, hardly covering the fact that he thought my companion had now completely lost his marbles.

"Doctor, please help me to turn him around."

Holmes carefully examined the back of the man.

"Odd," he remarked.

"What is odd, then?" the official asked testily.

"This!" Holmes pointed at some scratches at the back.

"His head is bashed in and you find a couple of scratches on the man's back odd?"

"He also had them on his chest," Holmes stated.

"Well. Maybe he scratched himself on the thorns of those roses... - or perhaps he had an itch to scratch, or, well what do I know how he got those scratches. But mark my words, they have nothing to do with his death."

"And I tell you, they have everything to do with his death. - How inspector, do you scratch yourself on roses, whilst wearing a shirt? It must have hung in tatters, with the number of marks on him. No, the roses are not to blame. But I agree with you, he had an itch to scratch. But of a very different kind."

"I think we can return to the morning room and have a heart to heart with the Whitecombes. "

"Do you think you can solve this case?"

"I have solved it, inspector. It was quite a simple little problem. I just need to ascertain some further points, that are not quite clear to me, yet."

"And Mr Holmes, did you make any progress?" Whitecombe greeted us as soon as we entered.

"I did. - Do you mind if I smoke?" This was directed at the lady, who shook her head.

"Good." He struck a match and lit one of his cigarettes, inhaling deeply and exhaling with a sigh.

"Where to start, now? I think I perhaps should start at the beginning. Please correct me, where I am wrong. - You Mr Whitecombe have, some years ago, got into financial trouble, as a consequence you were invited to stay in this house."

"Quite correct."

"You then met Mrs Whitecombe – or rather Miss Durham as she was then."

"Yes, I took an interest in her almost immediately and half a year into our acquaintance we got married," he looked at his wife tenderly, who sat opposite him, stony-faced.

"Yes, it was convenient, I suppose, as now your brother in law could hardly permit to let his sister live in destitution. 

Whitecombe's face fell: "Excuse me!"

But Holmes continued, ignoring the interjection: "It was then that you found, your friend had a weakness. He was not as consequent in following the rules of his own preaching then he was adamant everybody else should. He had built himself a little nest where he could be completely undisturbed claiming to work on his next sermon when in reality, his occupation was much more from this world."

He looked at the man hard and then with a small smile corrected himself: "No, you knew that already. Now everything makes sense. - You shared in his indulgence. Well, that I had not foreseen. Seems there are still some things I have to learn. - When Mrs Whitecombe was it, that you found out?"

"About two years ago," the lady answered. Her face as pale as marble and as cold. "It was the 7th of March. I had returned from a charity bazaar in Ellesthorne early..."

She looked at her husband: "Did you really think I did not know?"

He stared at her in shock.

"Yes, you really thought so," she laughed bitterly.

"All the time you thought you had me thoroughly deceived. What a fine husband I have gotten for myself! A coward, a gambler, a cheat and a poof. I can be really proud of myself. If it had not been for Obadiah I would never have married you. But then, it was convenient for him, too, wasn't it?"

Her face was contorted with rage.

"And then I met someone who loved me for myself and what did my dear brother do? He sacked him! He shamed me for being an adulteress. - HE! Who shagged my husband! He, who made me marry him, so his lover would always be at hand! HE!" she was lost for words, while all of us stared at her in shock.

"So you took the vase from the pedestal in the pavilion right behind the canapé and smashed it into his face," Holmes continued.

"That day I had found out that I was with child and I wanted to inform him, that I was leaving my husband for a better man. I was tired of this farce that was my marriage. I followed him to his retreat, my things ready and packed. I was not willing to stay at this place, that only made use of me and never gave anything back, a minute longer. He went at me and I grabbed the closest thing at hand and ran towards him, the rugged stone amphora held above my head, ready to strike, as much as he was. He had his cane ready to hit me in the stomach. To prevent shame, he told me. As we hurled towards one another I slipped and fell. The vase slid out of my grasp and hit my brother right in the face. He fell towards the ground, trying to catch the heavy stone vessel. - But to no avail. It hit him again, falling right onto his face. I was shocked. My only relative, as badly as he had treated me, was dead. Remnants of his face spluttered my skirt. My first instinct was to get the vase off of his head. I don't know, whether it was to ascertain that he was dead or hoping he was still alive. I took it and flung it into the pool with all the strength the situation afforded me. I saw that nothing was to be done and then I just went to my room. Changing my clothes, hiding the soiled ones in the springs of the underside of my armchair. The buzzing of the flies has bothered me ever since."

Tears now streamed down her face as we all looked at her flabbergasted. Even Holmes showed some kind of emotion. It was, in fact, her husband who reacted first. He got up from his chair and went over to his wife, pulling her up from her seat and embracing her.

"What have we done to a woman as good as you?" he whispered, almost inaudible.

She let him be, crying into his shoulder.

"But that is not the worst..." she sobbed. "I have lost the baby."

XXX

As Lestrade stayed behind to finish the official line of the investigation that had led to the arrest of the murderess and of her husband for unseemly behaviour, Holmes and I took the night train back into London. The case leaving a bitter aftertaste. Neither of us felt any inclination of staying in the country any longer.

"How did you know it was Mrs Whitecombe?" I asked as we made our way towards the capital.

"I analysed the footprints beside the pavilion. There were several, but only one set of woman's boots. They were only faint at most places but all of a sudden, they had sunken in more pronounced. I deduced that the woman was carrying something heavy and looking around I noticed right next to the first heavy imprint a niche were something had stood, the indentation of the item still visible and not yet greying or withered like on the other side of the door, so I was assured that the murder weapon was a decorative item, presumably of marble or steatite. Then I saw, that the ground was muddy in some parts. In one particular spot, very close to where the body had been, the lady had obviously slipped. Then I could see some drag marks towards the body. The woman had apparently checked what had just happened, scrambling on her knees. Then there was a distinct dent on the water's edge of the pool, which as you remember was only about three feet away from that spot. That was why I asked Lestrade for the net. I was sure that whatever it was that had killed the Reverend Durham, had been thrown in there," he explained.

"I then proceeded inside the tea house, which Lestrade had obviously left untouched. It was an interesting place. I asked Lestrade what it was generally used for."

"Yes, I do remember."

"Well, it was obvious from the choice of literature, that it was not used to write sermons. The book was a rather juicy one. - And no wonder it had no title on it."

"What was it?"

"A bound collection of "The Pearl - Magazine"."

"Never heard of it," I confessed.

"Which does you credit, Watson. It was forbidden in 1880 for its lewd contents."

"Oh!"

"So I have to admit, that at the time I thought of a lover of the reverends to have killed him in jealousy. But the contents of the side table did not make sense."

"You mean this stick and the Vaseline and I believe it was a silk scarf..."

"It was. I presume it had something to do with his sexual preferences, which after all ran in a very different direction from what I had foreseen. Anyhow, after examining the body I was assured he had been with someone in a very private manner."

"The scratches!"

"Exactly. No man would ever be able to graze his skin in this way brushing past a couple of rose bushes. - Especially not while wearing a shirt. It was the only conclusion that I could come to. I also observed Vaseline around his rectum, which indicated the use of one of the items found in the drawer, and also that it might not be a female lover we were looking for. At this point I was confused. The footprints told the story of a woman being the killer and the traces on the man himself showed clearly that it was not a woman he used to make love to."

"Holmes, that is disgusting!"

"Perhaps. Personally, I believe that every man and woman should love whoever they choose as long as it is mutual. Anyway, the next question at hand was, who was the man he met with in his hideout? It must have been someone who did not give rise to suspicion. - That left either a manservant or his brother in law. I came to the conclusion that it must be the latter. None of the servants seemed to be shaken very much, Whitecombe on the other hand was. - Though I have to admit that this might be a mere disposition. Still, looking at the evidence I had I was looking for a woman, who was strong enough to lift a heavy object and hurl it a good yard, also a woman with some passion and a woman who might have been wronged. - There at last Mrs Whitecombe came into the picture. I was ready to meet them and confront them with my findings."

At this, he struck a match and lit another of his cigarettes.

"We have reached the outskirts of London already," I remarked. 

My friend nodded in agreement while smoking in silence, only continuing his tale when he had finished.

"I had not anticipated the lady to be so forthcoming with her story as she had turned out to be, but I presume the loss of her unborn child was too much for her. When I had first seen her, I observed that she had her left hand bound with a bandage. - It was almost hidden underneath her black fingerless lace gloves, also her fingers were bruised slightly and the skin grazed in a couple of places. At that time she was wise enough to keep her hand from view, later it was clearly visible when she had her hand on the table. I wonder you did not notice it."

"I was too enthralled by her tale," I defended myself.

"I will take care that she will get tried for manslaughter in self-defence. The footprints proof her story to be correct and the Reverend had a loaded walking stick. If he had hit her in the stomach with it, her child's fate would have been sealed."

"So what was it with that Newton you mentioned?"

Holmes chuckled: "THAT Newton is Sir Isaac Newton and he lay down some laws concerning force and gravitation as you might recall from school."

I felt like a nincompoop.

"When each party had hauled at one another, which apparently had been the case, the force of the blow would have been stronger than it would have been, when either party had stood still."

"Yes, but how likely is it, that the vase landed upon his face, would it not fall towards the ground more quickly than the body?"

"Fair question. Not if perhaps the man was already in the process of falling when it hit him in the first place. What if at that moment he saw his sister slip and loose grasp of the vessel she was carrying, he tried to retreat, not managing and already falling backwards, when the item hit him in the forehead. That would have him propelled backwards and the vase change direction and follow the earth's gravitation towards the ground, where the man now lay. Also, it might have hit him before he had hit the ground. Either way, I have to say, I believe her. She has nothing to lose and nothing left to live for, there is no reason, why she would lie about this. She has been ill-used, Watson. Very ill."

I nodded in agreement: "What a terrible narrative!"

"I told you, Watson, the country, as lovely and serene as it might appear, holds a great many horrible secrets," Holmes remarked as the train rolled into the station.


End file.
